


Ties That Bind

by semiiramiis (HikaruAdjani)



Series: Ties That Bind [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HikaruAdjani/pseuds/semiiramiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One very unlikely damsel in distress and a group of very unlikely rescuers equal one very unlikely rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The man stood, staring out at the horizon in front of him. In one hand, he held a sheet of paper. In the other, a thick silver chain, ornamented with a cluster of small silver rings, dangled from his fingertips. He had remained in that exact same position for over an hour, his only movement was to occasionally run the rings through his grasp like worry stones on a string.

"Milord?" The man on the terrace with him finally, finally summoned the nerve up to interfere with the heavy silence.

"You believe we should hold onto our humanity." The voice was deep, dark, echoing. "Our ties. Our bonds. Our...loved ones."

"They are what hold us back from the precipice of our own monstrosity, Highlord." The other man's answer was wary, but firm. He would not deny it even if it brought him trouble.

"And we forgive those who have lost their way."

Heavier doubt, but Thassarian finally gave his answer. "Many of them, as we sought forgiveness, so should we forgive. May I ask why you've asked me here?

Why, indeed. Darion Mograine, Highlord of the Ebon Blade, studied the chain in his hand, his expression somber. "You are the only one I can trust with this, Thassarian. I must...ask for a favor. And it will not be an easy one."

That brought the other man to his side in a moment, the wariness gone. Thassarian was willing, but could Darion ask it of him? It was insanity. It reeked of failure, a disaster. But he couldn't just turn his back on this. He still had enough of that humanity that Thassarian extolled so persistently to know it had to be done. "Nothing truly important is."

"I want you to kidnap someone."

"Kidnap, milord?" Now, there was doubt in Thassarian's voice, and Darion chuckled. "I think you have the wrong man." Thassarian finally stated, and Darion glanced over his shoulder. No, he was certain he had the right man. He held up the sheet of paper, the dull light washing it red.

"This is a death order, Thassarian. On one of the few living people I still give a damn about. I can't..." Let this one go. He'd invested so much in a superb spy network, expecting it to help his allies, and to underscore the value of his people to an often dubious audience. He hadn't been expecting this.

"You want me to kidnap the person who has put up the order?"

Thassarian was almost bridling with doubt and resentment, his pale brows lowered. "Koltira would be better equipped for that endeavor. I will not help you torture someone, even if..." He waved impotently at the paper. "Kill them outright for you, yes, but..."

"I don't want you to kidnap the person who has issued this." Darion slapped the folded paper into his other palm. "I want you to kidnap the target."

"Save...?" Less disdain, that was much more palatable to the other death knight, and Darion nodded slowly.

"Yes, Thassarian, I want you to save the target. It will be dangerous, because she won't want to be saved, especially by the likes of us. And I need it done in a very particular way. Not a simple snatch and grab, although that by itself wouldn't be simple. She will put up a fight."

"A worthy fight?"

Darion snorted, suspiciously close to laughter, and Thassarian tilted his head to stare back. "A worthy fight, yes. No doubts. But first, I need a replacement for her. Someone to be her doppelganger until this is acted upon. That is obviously a death sentence." That was the part that Darion wasn't certain that Thassarian would go along with. For the plan to work correctly, it must seem to all that she had died. It was the only way she'd know the truth, and it was the only way she'd have the time and freedom to see what played out around her. For that, there must a sacrifice. But without that sacrifice, he would lose his final link to his living past. And, he loved her. Not in the expected way, of a man with a woman, but love nonetheless. "When I was a child, I gave her a gift." He'd been trying so desperately to be more than his years. It had been chosen so carefully, and now he understood his father's indulgence in its purchase. It had been no cheap trinket bought by a boy, the item that had caught Darion's eyes that day was not a small token. Today, he understood its worth, its value. "A necklace, with several silver rings suspended on it. Each ring was different. Different carvings, different stones. It was beautiful."

Thassarian's gaze dropped to Darion's hand, the chain patently visible hanging in the air, painted by the dying sun. "This is only a small part of it." Darion stated, "When I became very ill, she and some others each took one of the rings, had it blessed, said their prayers on it, and put them on this chain. The prayers of paladins for a child that they loved and cared for. And they put it around my neck. It's been with me ever since."

"A true gift to still possess." Thassarian noted. "So you want me to kidnap a paladin, replace her with a doppelganger, and wait for the inevitable to happen?"

"That's exactly what I want."


	2. Chapter 2

As a motherless child, Darion had occasionally been, as his father had so delicately put it, shared with others. Usually it had been for a few hours, a day or so, but his care had often fallen to the teenaged girls around him. He'd grown to know them all well, and had understood those he tolerated well, and those he did not. He'd been dreading his father's choice of babysitters that summer, because a month was a long time to put up with those he did not. He understood as an adult, now, the veil of age lifted, that his father had not actually intended to leave him in the care of any of the teenaged girls for a month, especially not the dreaded Sally. But, in a private moment, Darion had shyly raised his doubts about who would be given the responsibility to care for him while his father and brother traveled. He now understood that his father's next question had been measuring, a test of both Darion's relationships with those around him, and his ability to choose someone trustworthy...to see a value in people. Who would Darion choose to watch him while Alexandros was away for so long? There had been no restrictions, Darion could have answered any name at all, but his mind was still stuck on the usual array of babysitters. He'd answered honestly, and there had been something in his father's eyes at the answer. Surprise? A well disguised hope? Measurement?

Now, Darion understood that what he'd requested was out of line. Certainly, out in a village, she'd be considered more than old enough to babysit Darion, and a dozen more just like him, for a whole month. In fact, she was old enough to have been married herself, with a babe in belly, if not one already in her arms. But Darion had not been raised in a simple village, and the target of his request was no neighboring farm girl.

But she'd arrived that morning, and was either the world's greatest actress...a dubious thought even now...or none too put off by the task of watching him. She'd done an amazing job of it as well, devoting her full attention to it. Never once had she shirked it, never once had she left him to go be with her friends. She'd taught him to fish, and gathered berries with him. She had, in a mix of dread seriousness and play, sparred with him, wooden sword against wooden sword.

He sighed, sitting down at the desk in his chambers, absorbing the silence of Acherus. It was a foolish idea to try to grasp those feelings back. They were dead. Gone. He was dead, truly. And she...

"Will you take care of me?" His voice had been wistful. She'd said nothing for a long moment, watching Alexandros' back, Renault's, well after both had turned away from her, well after Alexandros had stopped waving. Her hand on his shoulder had been both caring and edged in steel.

"Absolutely, Darion. I will care for you. I will fight for you. We're as good as family, you know."

As good as family. He nodded, mind finally made up. Doing this had all of the earmarks of a disaster, but he couldn't just sit idly by. He had the resources at his disposal to do this, and he was willing to face the consequences... all of them. And unfortunately, he knew that she was going to be the most dire of those consequences.

He dropped the chain on the dull black surface, smiling at the metallic clink as the rings hit. Taelan's...dead. His father's...dead. High General Abbendis's...dead. That left only two. Tirion's... not dead. And hers. Six silver rings. Once there had been a seventh, but that one had been destroyed by Darion himself.

"Like it or not, I'm coming for you." He told the silent, empty room, his breath a chill fog. "Because...we're as good as family."


	3. Chapter 3

Thassarian growled to himself as he strode down the halls. The idea stank, but his orders were very specific, starting with the fact that Koltira must remain oblivious to everything. That was not going to be easy, the elf was intuitive and very quick to realize when things were going on behind his back. He could smell 'interesting occurrences' on the very breezes within Acherus.

This was not going to be easy, but if it could be done, Thassarian would get it done. Even if it was a lost cause, he had to help. After all, they'd all been lost causes...every single death knight based out of Acherus had spent time being a monster. What was one more? It was so rare that Mograine asked for anything...for himself, that Thassarian knew if word got out he'd be fighting off volunteers. No, he'd been chosen for a reason. Mograine's points were valid. Thassarian had the disposition for this. And, amongst his contacts, he had entities ready, willing, and able to get this done. She'd never knew what hit her, just as requested. She couldn't be allowed to set up for a fight, for her own good...and for theirs. While Thassarian had never had the dubious honor of running up against her personally, her reputation preceded her. He was just happy that Mograine had made it very clear his only job was to secure her intact enough for her to survive it. After that, she became the Highlord's problem. He didn't have the history, the relationship, or the love to bring her out of this. If Mograine cared, then he was the only one who had a chance in hell. And if he couldn't...

Thassarian pursed his lips in thought. Mograine had been clear, if she died, she died at his hands. And her head would be no man's trophy.

 

****************

 

" _Do you think I'm spoiled_?" He was holding the basket up high, trying to ignore its growing weight. He wanted to help. He was tired of being small. Renault had been quick to leave him behind, and he had sifted down back into her company, if not care, just as easily as usual. Her response had been to put him to work alongside her, a responsibility he was thankful of.

She pursed her lips, jutting her jaw and lowering her brows. It was not an uncommon look for her, she was temperamental and confrontational, hardly a sweet and kindly sort of young woman. _"No_." She replied, and he frowned, unconvinced.

" _Renault does_." He prodded, although prodding her when she got that particular look was not usually wise.

" _I am not Renault_." She stated the obviously, jerking a thumb beyond him, back towards the wheelbarrow for an empty basket. He sighed, battering his thighs as he struggled with the full basket of apples, trying to avoid setting it down, dropping it, or slipping on the wet grass. He settled it in the barrow and brought her an empty basket so that she could start filling it.

" _Sally says so as well_." He pushed again, and her expression grew downright stormy.

" _And I am not Sally_." She noted coldly, and he debated going further. He was old enough to know that she did not have the most tranquil of relationships with either his brother, or Sally Whitemane. "If I said that I do not think you are spoiled, Darion, then that is exactly what I meant. Do you accuse me of lying?"

No. But she might try to soften a blow against him. Although she could be pugilistic and easy to anger, she was a good person. A kind one. He could see that under the squared jaw, the dark glares, and an amazing willingness to throw into a fight...any fight. "No, ma'am." He breathed, and she stared at him, blowing at a loose strand of hair hanging in her face.

" _Darion_." She finally murmured, moving close and resting her hands on his shoulders, leaning over to stare into his eyes. " _You are not spoiled. How you have managed to avoid that, I cannot say. But you are not. You have been more than ample opportunity to be so, for your father coddles you shamelessly, but..." Her lips were amazingly warm when she pressed them to his forehead in a truly rare display of affection. "You are not. The problem is not you." She began to toss apples into the basket, paying little attention, but rarely missing. "But is things beyond your control. I do not hold those against you._ " She was angry, he realized, a low grade simmer. And he had made her so. No. He suddenly saw through it. She was mad for him, not at him.

" _Darion_?"

" _Yes_?"

" _If _you get me crabapples, I will make you a batch of spiced ones. You like them, if I remember rightly_  _I." She glanced at him, her eyes dark in the paleness of her face. " _But...only if you tell no one. I'll not have them all thinking I'm some sort of cook or something."_

Darion grinned, her spiced crabapples were amazing, and he adored them. Much as he adored her. " _I promise_."


	4. Chapter 4

When had things gone foul? She wasn't certain, but she grasped that they had. Somewhere along the way, she'd lost her way. The path had become foggy, and then obliterated altogether. Now she was lost. Adrift. Blind. But now every beacon of truth she had ever leaned on was absent, she'd been abandoned to her fate. They're all dead. And she was alone...

She sighed, wrapping fingers in the chain around her neck. Her father. Both Mograines. Both Fordrings. There had been a time when she'd been a part of something, and people she trusted had watched her back. Now, the very stones whispered threats around her. Things have gotten rotten to the core, just rotten. Like apples gone too far to even press for cider... Apples only the chickens and pigs would eat. She wrinkled her nose at the idea, chickens and pigs. How fitting. Once surrounded by the finest men that Azeroth could claim, beloved, held high...and now, surrounded by chickens and pigs.

I helped make them that way.

Her fingers tightened on the chain and she growled at the very idea. Where had this doubt come from? Once she'd been focused, sharpened, a great weapon for righteousness. And now, what? Second guessing every move, every thought, riddled with doubts that she'd never air. And when had that happened? She was a damned fool. Trust was a thing of the past.

That is not what you were promised. Not what you fought for. Not what any of you fought for.

True enough. She paused in the pale light falling from a window, gazing up. It seemed like moonlight, for all that it was near midday. No warmth...

She caught furtive motion out of the corner of her eye and flicked a cautious glance in its direction. Nothing. No one. Just her paranoia eating at her...nothing new there. But like it or not, it felt as if the very stones themselves watched her, judged her, and found her lacking.

Darion. Taelan. Both dead. Both gone. Any hopes, any thoughts, any dreams that they might have brought had died with them. Once, she had been weighing each of them... willing to wait until the right one of them was old enough. Whichever one of them that happened to be.

Neither.

The scion sons of two of the greatest families in the Order, the crop she'd been expected and expecting to choose a companion from, gone. She missed them both, so much. She missed them all, so much.

Tirion yet lives.

Heresy. But she felt fear, a desperate isolation...here, in the fold. The last place she should feel distant in. Everything felt wrong. I am afraid.

"There is no fear in the righteous."

And there hadn't been fear, when she'd been truly righteous. Now, she had deep doubts that she hid from those around her. She was supposed to be able to lean on her comrades, use their strength to bolster hers, not to hide her true face from them.

We've failed.

She sighed, kneeling before the altar and beginning her prayers, but her wishes were filled with things long past, and she counted them each off with a single silver ring.

.*.

Thassarian prepared the room carefully, with the aid of a serene Amal'thazad. The absolute last thing that they needed on Acherus was this one; loose, cornered and enraged. That would be chaos.

And the Highlord's directions were explicit...she was to be kept in as close to luxury as they could manage while still holding her securely. A library of books crowded the shelves, a comfortable bed with pristine white sheets and deep feather mattress. Chairs. A desk. A small table. A brightly patterned rug...he prepared as if he was readying a room for one of his own loved ones.

"She cannot get free."

The lich chuckled icily. "No, Thassarian. She will not escape from this room until the moment that the Highlord himself decides she goes free. You will not be able to free her. I will not be able to."

"I admit that this idea makes me nervous." But it was the Highlord's request...possibly the only personal one that he'd ever asked for. They'd move earth and sky to give it to him. "Do we have the doppelganger?"

"We do. She'll work long enough. And once she is dead, the cantrip will become permanent. Waiting longer than we have risks the chance of someone making it through New Hearthglen's defenses and killing her before we can put this into motion. Time is of the essence."

"Then I move now." It was that simple.


	5. Chapter 5

She was certain she was being watched. That feeling had grown stronger, more disturbing, over the past couple of days. Or...she was simply growing delusional, paranoid. That's what the voice in her soul told her, it denied...no, it laughed at the very idea that someone was watching her. Once it had been a source of understanding, but now every time she listened to it she felt less. Less secure. Less balanced. Less real. More isolated. Alone, and lonely.

No one watches you. You grow skittish in your waning years. Unfit for the responsibility you've been given. Unfit. You are...

She quashed the litany down, her eyes following a shadow. It should just be a drift from a sputtering candle, there were plenty of those, but something about it rang wrong. No. That was no sprite of her aging imagination, no stuttering from a gutting candle, that was something moving, skulking down the narrow hallway in front of her.

Going chasing will o'wisps in your nightclothes, oh great champion? I'm certain that the men will laugh themselves sick when they catch sight of this one...unfit. Decrepit. Demented. A fossil.

Well, it did have exactly one point, she was actually in her nightclothes. The doubts seemed to come louder when she was, as if harnessing up in armor drove them away. The chances that she would be caught as she was, here and now, had been faint...very few would be up at this hour, deep in the safety of these rooms kept for the best. But it was a warren back here, behind the chapel...who had designed this? She had no lines of sight, there were too many slight turns in the way, and it was damned near claustrophobic. Dark, dank, tight...all wrong to consider fighting in. No, she needed to go back to her rooms. There might be a guardsman on patrol, if she was lucky.

Coward. Since when do you need a guardsman? Unfit. Unfit. Unfit. You'd let this go unchallenged?

How could she challenge it if it wasn't even there? She hated this, when the voice in her soul contradicted itself so totally and completely. Except in its hatred of her, that it never lost, that remained whole and pure no matter what.

She slunk down the hallway, back up against the wall, gaining a heavy iron candle holder from a niche as she went. A tight four way intersection, and nothing. Just the hallway. Just the darkness, until suddenly the darkness opened its eyes and reached for her. She bellowed, swinging the candle holder with great speed and even greater accuracy, hitting whatever it was right above those glowing, red eyes. It yelped, hissed, and suddenly she was hit from behind, captured in a bear hug that forced the air immediately from her lungs. The cold edges of armor bit into her skin, tore the flannel of her nightgown when she leveraged into him, planting her bare feet on his poleyn and arching upwards.

Consecrationhammerofjusticeholy...

He hissed in equal parts pain and determination, smacking his hand palm down on the top of her head. The blow was hard enough to definitely get her attention, but not enough to hurt or even truly daze her.

"Shield." He snarled into her ear, and she blinked in sudden confusion. What? Surely he wasn't asking for, no, demanding what she thought he was? It was beyond foolish...

"Or I..." She could see the hand he'd dropped on her head pull back, fist up, the candlelight sullenly lighting the dark ridges of his armor. If he released that blow, she'd be in trouble. Really, the only sane response was exactly what he was demanding.

She took a deep breath, called the shield and fixed the next series of spells concretely in her mind. Undead, she could take him...even in her now torn nightgown...if she simply kept her head. If the voice in her soul didn't distract her. If.

If he didn't do exactly what he did do, which was to throw her headlong down the hallway, impetus aided by the heavy grip he had on her nightgown. She'd been expecting him to try to hold on to her, not give her a running start away from him. What an idiot. The landing would be harsh, but she was shielded. She'd bounce.

"Now!" He snapped, and the shadows in front of her, the shadows he'd been aiming at, deepened and darkened, edged with a frame of bright cyan blue.

Nonononono... But all of the no's in the world weren't going to keep her from falling through that darkness, and landing beyond it. The transit was blessedly fast, just a breath, and she was disgorged back into reality, headlong into a corner.

She stood on wobbling legs, the shield fading. She'd been thrown through a death gate, by what could have only been a death knight. And she stood in darkness. Unrelenting, pressing darkness. And in her soul there was only silence. She could finally hear her own heart beating. She could finally hear nothing, nothing at all, that wasn't a part of her own body doing its thing. And it was the most blessed sound in the world.

She placed her hands out, taking tiny baby steps forwards. There was a rug on the floor, she could feel it between her toes. The air was chilled, close and damp. "Hello?" She asked stupidly, but it truly felt like she was alone. How was that possible? Where was she?

"Ow." She'd run into something, lower than her hands, knee height. She adjusted, resting her hand on a bed. A bed? A bed. With an abundance of thick, heavy, clean and dry blankets on it. And she was suddenly exhausted, too cold to consider much more than climbing into it. She'd just sit, listen and wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Darion stared down. The first pale tinges of dawn barely lit the small room, but he had no doubts. Even after all of this time, he'd recognize her. She had aged, of course, like any living person should. But her hair was still dark red, her skin still firm...she was aging gracefully. Her expression was serene in sleep, but he knew better. The moment she came to, it would switch back to her normal...and her normal was always high tempered. Even when things were going her way. Now, she'd be vicious. But Darion knew her, he understood her. The best way to handle it was just to flow through it, unyielding, unflappable. And undeath had given him a full measure of the patience she was going to require.

"Good morning." He stated, and oddly, she did not snap awake. She felt wrong. "Amal'thazad?" Had something gone awry? Had Thassarian injured her? He'd been so certain that he had not when he'd reported her capture to Darion hours ago. In fact, he'd been less than impressed with the fight she'd put up, but did allow that he'd managed to corner and distract her, wandering the halls in a state of undress. Hardly her most shining moment.

"That answers that question." The lich stated calmly and Darion stared at it through the bars fixed to the room's doorway. Amal'thazad might consider that an answer, but Darion heard no answer in anything, whatsoever.

"She is cut off from that which had hooks in her soul. She sleeps without it speaking to her for the first time in years. She is exhausted from the struggle to hold it at bay. This simply confirms that which has been asked."

Darion nodded, sitting on the floor next to the bed. Yes, the question... were the Scarlet's zealots simply that, zealots...or was there something deeper at play? He could understand the beginning, the seed, but it grew like a tumor, warped and twisted. Wrong. "Can she be pulled back?" He asked softly, resting in the shadow thrown by her bed. She'd been living under this for years, it might just be too damned late. Even so, if she had to be put down, he'd do in the right way. He loved her. They were as good as family.

"Even this long in, she doubts. She struggles. She's simply so far off of the path she can't even decide which way is forward anymore. We've pulled back those who are farther gone than she is, master."

`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

She woke to silence. Odd silence. No bells, no calls to prayer, no voices. She was wrapped in a luxury of blankets, crisp sheets. Her eyes shot open when she remembered. She'd been taken, by the undead.

By very polite undead. The small room was comfortable, clean, well appointed. Barred and locked, but hardly a nightmare. There was food on the small table, covered by a fine linen napkin. She lifted it warily, but found only good, honest food...bread, cheese, hard boiled eggs, hard sausage, and a glass jar of some pickle. She gave it a wary sniff, grasping one of the round forms from it by the still attached stem. "Spiced crabapples."

"Bridge."

Her heart sputtered for a second. Even after all of this time, even with its eerie darkness, she recognized his voice. "Darion." It was wrong to call him that. He was dead. He was gone! This wasn't really him, it was just a twisted remnant of a man she'd once loved. A man as good as family... She missed him so damned much. "Why?" She demanded hoarsely, finally gathering the nerve to turn. To face him. To see him. She'd faced death knights, she'd heard exactly what he'd become. Not just any death knight, no. Darion never did anything half assed. He'd be terrible, safely hidden beneath black armor. He wouldn't look like Darion...

Unless, of course, he was going out of his way to look like Darion. He was out of armor, wearing muted gray breeches and a midnight blue tunic. No, she had to measure him by his differences...by his pale hair, by his glowing blue eyes, by the hardly natural heft he'd gained since she'd seen him last. Not Darion. Not my Darion.

He gazed at the floor, pensive for a long moment before he pulled two piece of paper from his pocket. He passed them to her silently, and she opened them warily. Tucked within them was an object she knew all too well, she wore the part she still had against her skin even now. A chain with four silver rings, there had been five originally, blessed by their prayers...she'd pressed them into Darion's skin, her heart filled with panic. Don't die.

And the man facing her was dead. It seemed a pale mockery that he still carried this. She frowned, opening the papers and scanning them, before closing her eyes. Sonofabitch.

"Someone wants you dead, Bridge. Actually, someone thinks you are already dead. This..." He tore the bounties from her grasp and threw them to the floor, "Was collected on. Your head rides a pike. You are dead to most of the world."

I am free.

"Darion." There was a deep irony, she had been rescued, saved, by a Champion of the Scourge. An epitome of the undead. Not possible. It was a trap, a trick. "I do not understand." But she did...

"We are as good as family. You are the one who told me that, Bridge. Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember." When she'd said it, she'd meant it. Darion Mograine had been as good as family to her. She would have done anything to keep him safe, well. But she'd failed. She should have been there...

"Then you're the only family I have left." He sat on the chair across from her, motioning towards the plate. "I may be dead, Bridge, but you aren't. And I intend to do my best to keep you that way. Eat."


	7. Chapter 7

And that was all she did for two weeks. Eat. And sleep. Just like a small child or an invalid. But wasn't that last one correct? Wasn't she an invalid? Hadn't she been ill for a very, very long time? Sick in heart, soul and body? 

It had taken Darion to come get her. Darion, who had been dead for years. Darion, whom she had considered to be gone, lost, slipped from her fingertips. But was he truly lost? The very question was heresy. He was dead. He was an abomination. This was a trap. 

If only it could feel that way. If only she could feel threatened. But for the first time in a long time, she felt safe. Loved. 

I don't know if I can do this. Even though she knew that being lost and empty had been wrong, this was disturbing on an entirely different level. This meant letting an obsession, the only driving force of her life, slip. It would mean letting Darion simply be Darion, not a death knight...not undead. If he is so lost, why would he do this? If he was so damned, why would he have bothered to send someone to come get her? It made no sense. Nothing made any sense. She was being held in a small room and she felt more free than she had in years. The voice in her soul was silent, its hate and rage extinguished. She felt normal, able to finally face and work through so much loss. So much pain. 

I never meant to do wrong. 

But she had. So, so much wrong. But Darion had brought her here, and now she was surrounded by those who had done wrong. So, so much wrong. And they understood it. Like her, they'd had a voice in their soul which had driven them to it. And like her, they now faced the rest of their existence knowing that they'd done wrong. But they kept going. 

She hugged herself, even though she was not cold. Every day she woke there were more clothes, beautiful clothes, warm clothes. Combs, clasps and ribbons for her hair. Good food. She couldn't complain about her care...but there was one issue that was beginning to wear on her. For the first three days, Darion had been there. But now she hadn't seen him in days, her care fell solidly on the death knight who had captured her from New Hearthglen. 

“Where is Darion?” It was the first question she had asked of him since she'd arrived. She answered his questions when he asked them...was she well? Did she need anything? Want anything? But she had never started a conversation with him. 

Thassarian paused, tilting his head as he considered her question, and his answer to it. “Highlord Mograine is on the ground in Northrend, milady. Fronting our forces there.” 

Darion was on the ground, on a front...while she ate her fill, wrapped in flannels and wool? “What forces there?” She had no clue what the death knights of Darion's Ebon Blade were actually up to. She'd heard rumors, vague whispers, but nothing had seemed real. Of course, very little from New Hearthglen seemed real...now it was all just a fuzzy, surreal jumble in her head. 

“We push against the Lich King.” He leaned against the wall, but his bright blue gaze never left her. She could feel it, boring into the back of her head as he weighed her questions. 

“You belonged to the Lich King.” 

He snorted, shifting. “And you, General Abbendis, belonged to a demon. Would you not rise against that one if you were given the chance to? Redemption? Retribution for using you in a way you were never meant to be used? Justice for those you've lost to it? You were just as enslaved to it as we have ever been to the Lich King. No difference.” 

No difference. No difference between her and these? Between her and Darion? That very idea should stir outrage, indignation, but all it brought was a weird clarity. They'd all committed great sins...Thassarian, Darion, they grasped what had happened to her in ways that very few could. Even Tirion Fordring would never have their understanding of it. He might forgive. But he'd never truly get it. 

“Thank you. For everything.” 

He shifted again, uncomfortable for a moment before he moved up behind her, cautious as he rested a bare hand on her shoulder. “It is my pleasure.” He said, squeezing slightly. “I do...understand. You are not alone in this.” 

I am not alone in this.


	8. Chapter 8

Darion was not surprised to get the message from Thassarian, two weeks was a good amount of time for Bridge to start to getting her legs back underneath her. It was the rest of the message that confused him...

What are you up to, Bridge? 

Non-confrontational. Reasonable. Clear headed. Calm. Composed. Those were descriptions that had never been used for Brigitte Abbendis before she had been demon tainted. Now, he truly doubted them. Bridge was playing Thassarian. She had to be, but even that was oddly controlled for this. He'd left her in the care of a member of what she loathed more than anything...one of the undead. Of course, every single person he trusted to deal with her was undead. It wasn't as if he could hand her off to Tirion and the Argent Crusade...that would be a disaster. No, she was his to deal with, good, bad or indifferent. It had been his decision to go get her. He was the one who still loved her. He wasn't certain that anybody else did. 

She deserves a chance. Even if she wanted as far away from him as she could get, he'd see that she got that chance. A new life. A new place. A new name. Darion had the contacts to make it happen. Bridge was not young anymore, her life had been hard enough. She'd lost too much, but he was willing to see her at least get herself back. A nice cottage somewhere, safely remote, where she could just slip away from all of this. She had been from Lordaeron...it had fallen. She'd never spent much time in Stormwind or any of its surroundings. The number of people who could still recognize her after all of this time were few and far between. Most of the people who had stood with Brigitte Abbendis had already fallen. Or would not be walking into Stormwind to accuse her of anything. 

If she was calm, then it was time to help start putting the pieces of her life back together. He had not done this only to keep her a prisoner in Acherus. He'd done this to pull her out of imprisonment, not to become her jailer. He folded Thassarian's letter up and rested it on the desk in his command tent, steeling his nerves and his soul. It had to be done...

“Darion? Not ill news, I hope?” Tirion's voice was weighted with concern, and Darion shook his head in answer. No, not ill news. Difficult to believe news, but not ill. 

“No.” He answered, glancing back at the paladin standing at the table behind him. Tirion's attentions had been locked on the map laid out, but now he was focused on Darion. And Tirion was the last person that Darion wanted, needed, to be involved in this. He knew Bridge, he had known her since she was a child. He carried Ashbringer...and Ashbringer would recognize Bridge in a moment. She was, after all, one of the paladins who had been involved in its forging. Its birth. It would be just as tied to her as it was to Tirion, who had also been part of its forging. Tirion was too dangerous, Darion had heard the whispers tying Bridge to the man's son. Then he'd faced the words with a mix of joy...because Taelan had been a good man, worthy of her...and an edge of envy. But that didn't matter anymore, Taelan was gone, and Tirion was not. Tirion was the one that Darion needed to be concerned about now. He had to hold Bridge away from the aging paladin. “There's just something on Acherus that requires my attention. If you need me, ask the lich. I can be back in a moment.” Let Tirion wonder just what it was, Darion kept his nose out of the paladin's business, and he expected Tirion to do the same. 

Tirion remained silent, his gaze returning to the map he'd been studying and Darion nodded. Exactly. Once, Darion had been a paladin. Once, every person he had loved and cherished had either been a paladin or was on the path to become one. And that path had spared none of them. He cast a death door and stepped through it, from Northrend back to Acherus. Back to where he belonged. It held him close, it held him safe. It knew his secrets and did not judge him for them. 

She was right where he'd left her, standing in the light cast by the window...a book in her hands. He paused for a heartbeat, feeling the years, everything that had happened, his own death, fall away. This was Brigitte Abbendis; free, sane, healing, and loved again. She was beautiful, just as he remembered her to be. “Good morning, Bridge.” He offered, stepping out of the shadows in the hallway. 

“Darion. I did not expect you, Thassarian said you were leading from the front...” 

She called him Thasssarian. She'd used the man's name, without venom, without spitting, without a scowl. “I am.” He confirmed, stepping into the room with her. It was an odd echo to see her wearing a dress. He'd seen it before, but he was more used to seeing her in breeches. Or armor. She'd only worn skirts in happier times, safer times, but obviously Thassarian had seen fit to provide her at least one lovely dress. It made sense to bring her as far away from the High General that she had been as he could, and that was why Darion had left her in his care. The man was wise. Careful. “You look good, Bridge. You look like yourself again.” 

“Thank you. How does it go?” 

He shrugged, uncertain. She seemed well, but he wasn't easily fooled. Maybe she'd become devious in her maturity. Conniving. But it was so difficult to imagine a conniving Brigitte. Sally, definitely. Bridge, no. “It goes. We've combined with Tirion's units and are pushing into Northrend's interior. Nowhere near New Hearthglen...” The Scarlet Onslaught was nothing he had the time or energy to deal with. They were a stumbling block to his goals, nothing more. Nothing less. The only note he had ever paid them was that they had Brigitte. And now, he'd taken that away from them. They had nothing to turn him away with, nothing to hold Tirion back. When this was over, they would be the next to fall. 

“Tirion is working with the Ebon Blade.”

“Yes. He is. We bring down the Lich King together.” If these were better times, he could truly mean that. Nothing would... He sighed, driving the thought from his mind. No. Bridge needed out of here. Far from all of this.

“What, Darion?” She asked, sitting at the small table and pointing imperiously at the chair opposite hers. He snorted but accepted, sitting down across from her and staring into her face. 

“What? Nothing would make me more content than to have you fight beside me, Bridge. For all that we were promised, we never did stand together. Everything just all fell apart. But I know that will never be, all I need to know is are you well enough to make the next step?”

She dropped her gaze to the chess set on the table, picking up the white king from its place and staring at it for a long moment. “And what do you see the next step to be, Darion?” Her voice was calm, measuring, as she studied the piece. 

“Relocating you to the south. Not Stormwind, for the chance you'd be recognized there is too high. Elwynn. Westfall. A cottage, some ground. Apple trees. A home, Brigitte. You have skills, and if there was something you really wanted to do but don't know how to, I can arrange training. I did this to get you away from them. I know you, Bridge. You aren't what they made you into. You just need time to grab yourself back.” 

She grimaced, replacing the piece on the table and leaning back in her chair. “No. I will not go.” She growled, shaking her head sharply. 

He sighed in disgust, watching her as she stood, as she paced the length of the room. “Bridge...” Why wouldn't she see it? He loved her. He wanted her to be herself again. To hold that part of her own being again. 

“You fight, and you have only been recently released from the Lich King. Tirion fights, and he is not a young man. He has lost...” Her voice caught slightly before she bulled through the words. “So much. You say nothing would make you more content than to have me fight beside you, Darion, but that it will never happen. Why? You and I have been through the same thing.” 

“You wish to go to Tirion?” That was an idea he'd never considered. To have Brigitte Abbendis take the field as a paladin, one of the Argent Crusade...

“No. I wish to stand beside you. Your people have fallen. They seek to make amends, as I understand it from Thassarian. Am I correct?” 

We are damned. We hide behind helmets, beneath cowls and hoods, trying to mitigate the damage which we created, much of it not of our own free will. There were only two differences between him and Brigitte, she lived and she'd been dragged down by a different demon than he had been. But other than that, they were the same. “You wish to join the Ebon Blade?” It was so difficult to believe that he had problems saying the words. Brigitte had lived her entire adult life trying to destroy the undead...but now, wasn't he? He had no delusions about what they were going to face during this war. 

“I wish to stand by you. And since you are here, here is where I will be. Put me in gear, put a sword in my hand and let me do as you do. Against the Lich King. I'm too young to have a cottage with some ground and apple trees, Darion. Not when there's a fight going, not when there are amends to be made, not when you've got Tirion on the line.” 

“Bridge, you've been free for only days...” It sounded good, but then it sounded too good to be true. She could not be serious. 

“How long were you free from the Lich King before you turned to this path?” 

He bowed his head in defeat. She had him there, she'd had more time to consider this than he had, but he knew his path was the right one. “You told me once that we were as good as family. And now you're the only family I have left, Bridge. If you're serious, then I would welcome you. If you are not...” That was nothing he really wanted to consider. Brigitte Abbendis loose in the depths of the Ebon Blade could create chaos and carnage on a terrible level. But if she was serious, she could be an asset he'd never even considered. She knew everything that the Onslaught knew. She was still, in spite of everything, a paladin, beloved by the Light itself. She was still a general. She was exactly what he was missing. More than that, she was a friend. Family. A confidant. She remembered him when he had still been himself, just as he remembered her. 

“I am serious, Darion. I have just as many crimes to atone for as you do, if not more. I have considered this over the past few days and I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be.” 

“Then welcome, Bridge. Amal'thazad!” 

The air shifted, chilled, and he felt the lich's presence behind him. “Yes, highlord?” It asked smoothly and he flicked fingertips in her direction. 

“General Abbendis has decided to join the Ebon Blade. See that she is prepared to join our living contingent and geared appropriately as one of my advisers.” 

The lich paused and Darion could just hear the wheels turning in its head, feel it measure the idea, follow the threads from it. It was a lich. It was a fine lich, brilliant. If there were more than the obvious flaws in this idea, it would be the first to bring them up. “There are those in the Ebon Blade who have deep seated grudges against the Scarlet Onslaught and their High General.” It finally stated slowly. “I suggest that her identity be held close to those who already know it. But she is as burdened as if she was a death knight by her actions, her failings and her fall. As long as she swears service, I see no problem. The hold on her soul is broken, but a new oath will help keep the one that held her at bay. If she belongs to us, we can help keep her from slipping back to that. But I am certain she has already considered all of this.” 

“She has.” She said, and Darion could only nod in answer. If she was willing to do this, when he was willing to take her. The very idea was insanity, but so many things were and that didn't stop them from existing and working in his life. 

“Then I welcome you and await you on the ground in Northrend, sister. Suffer well.”


	9. Chapter 9

This is insanity. And this insanity felt right. The Light itself blessed this decision, agreed that Brigitte, who had spent her life struggling against the undead, should join with the Ebon Blade. 

Eventually, they will realize that they did not kill you in New Hearthglen. This is the last place anybody, anybody at all would look for you. And if they find you, they will have to fight their way through Darion's knights to claim your blood. 

The Ebon Blade, working hand in hand with the Argent Crusade, was the strongest force currently arrayed against the undead Scourge heavily based in Northrend. Did it really matter that they themselves were undead? 

Yes, of course it does. But when was the last time you were unleashed on the Scourge? It wasn't as if the Demon itself wanted you to make a stand against them. You were used against your own people, the living, to foment chaos and pain. You must change. And this is part of that process.

And that process had brought her here, to the depths of a necropolis, garbed her in black and set her in front of an arch-lich. “I swear my service to the Knights of the Ebon Blade, to its Highlord. I swear to stand against the Lich King and his forces. I swear to help put right what I have put wrong.” The blade under her fingertips was cold, the air around her was cold enough to where her breath was a visible fog before her face, but she felt warm. Whole. Alive. And completely herself again, even when the lich started to cast and she felt the wash of magic flow over her. It tickled and shifted, but she sensed no threat from it. 

“It is done. You will be able to return here just as any of the death knights can. You will be known as one of us by our forces and our defenses. The cold will seem less and...combined with your own immunities, you will remain unaffected by the plagues which surround you.” Its attention turned to Thassarian, her witness, who had remained stoic and silent in the corner. “It is as much as I can do while she lives. The rest is up to you.” 

“We want her to keep living.” Thassarian muttered loudly, and Brigitte knew it was for her peace of mind more than to inform the lich. “We have many death knights...but as of now, only one paladin.” It was an unnecessary statement, Darion had gone through this to save her life. If he'd only wanted her as a death knight, he would have let her die...and then gone after her. This had not been his idea. It had been hers. But it seemed like the only right way to go; to run away and hide in a remote cottage was just that, running away. She'd hide, certainly. Hide under the wing of the Ebon Blade, hide within Darion's reach, but she would not run. Not now. Not when the world was like it was. 

“Yes.” The lich agreed. “Our only paladin. There is value in that. And your task is to equip her as such...the only paladin of the Ebon Blade. One of the Highlord's advisers. A challenge, but not one I can aid you with. And no...” It turned on Brigitte as if the half formed thought in her mind had been spoken aloud. “...You bring nothing from the Scarlet Onslaught other than yourself and those precious items you were carrying with you into this necropolis, those items you had from before your fall. Everything else is tainted, and their recovery would do more than hint you yet live. You just swore to be ours, and we will equip you from Acherus's own forges as befits what you are to us now. And to what you have always been to the Highlord.”

“I...” She what? It was correct, most of her possessions were deeply tainted and she was better off without them. She had everything she treasured with her, the necklace that Darion had given her a lifetime ago, her wedding ring... “I...” 

“Will be reborn.” It replied simply, drifting away from her in a fog of frost. “Your loss has cut you free and you have come to us. And we are all cut free through our losses. In this, you are truly one of us, General Abbendis.” 

Truly one of them. It was a difficult idea to swallow, but there was an undeniable truth to it. Am I so desperate to belong again that I will accept this? 

“Take her to Iyan. She cannot be harnessed in saronite, and he is the only smith we have with a chance of crafting what she needs. If he cannot, then we will be forced to deal with the Crusade's smiths.” 

“We will work it out somehow.” Thassarian promised, but the lich was already gone. “If it's possible, Iyan can do it.” He continued, obviously speaking to Brigitte now. “If not...we go to the Crusade.” 

And the Crusade would ask questions, questions nobody here, herself included, wanted to answer. Why would the Ebon Blade have a paladin in the first place when they worked hand in hand with the Argent Crusade? But Brigitte was certain of one thing, she did not belong with the Crusade. At least not now. Right now, she was exactly where she was supposed to be. “Well, let us go see what he can do.” It was difficult to believe she was about to ask an undead smith to create a new set of armor for her, using a necropolis's internal forge. Would it even be possible? There was only one way to find out, and it wasn't as if she could stand at Darion's side in the clothes that Thassarian had brought for her, or even these shrouded robes. She needed armor, she needed armor fit for what she had always been, even through the darkest of times. She was a paladin, no matter what.


	10. Chapter 10

Darion watched the icebreaker make its way into the harbor, slowly navigating around to come alongside the dock. He could feel those onboard, both living and dead, who were tied to him. Thassarian was the most blatant, the brightest, but Brigitte was the strongest...a subtle, willing bond forged over a lifetime. And that was why he'd done this. 

It was time to claim her openly...well, as openly as he ever was because the name Abbendis was never going to fall from his lips except in the presence of those he trusted beyond all others. And he had more fingers than he had people he trusted that much. Even the majority of the Ebon Blade would never know who she was, as she served beside them. 

Thassarian was the first off and he strode without pause to stand beside Darion, his icy blue gaze skimming Valgarde's docks for threats. “It goes well.” He muttered under his breath, his words barely reaching Darion's ears. “She has a great deal of intelligence that we did not have...especially as to the Scarlet Onslaught's maneuverings in Northrend. They have a larger presence here than we thought.” 

“And she has shared?” She must have for Thassarian to even know that she had that information. But Bridge had been the High General of the Scarlets for years...decades. Even corrupted and lost, she had to know most of their secrets. Not all of them, because the Onslaught was just like any other rotten group, played against itself by its puppet-masters. It was no different than serving the Lich King. 

“She has...” Thassarian silenced as a form moved to the gangplank and all Darion could do for one bated moment was stare. He knew that was Brigitte, he felt it was so...but he'd never recognize this. She was harnessed in a showpiece of his smith's mastery, titanium and cobalt plate which managed to both scream paladin and servant of the Ebon Blade at the same time. He hadn't thought that was possible, but there she was, striding boldly towards him, every eye on the docks locked on her progress. 

“Highlord.” She greeted him and her voice was dark, her face obscured in shadow. She must remain unrecognizable. And this was unrecognizable, down to the changes in her voice. She certainly sounded like a death knight and the lack of glow in her eyes kept her features in darkness, even when she pulled her helm off and tucked it under her elbow. Her cowl, her cloak...embroidered midnight sky shadowweave...straight from Acherus's tailors, charged with the impossible, to hide Brigitte Abbendis. It was difficult to judge her height, her build, through the perfect combination of master craftsmen allowed to run with a new challenge. Her pauldrons were titanium wings, details picked out in cobalt wire, embracing her shoulders...and that was the theme for the entire harness. Her shield was brazenly blazoned with his insignia, and the axe she had slung at rest on her shoulder was a blatant single handed reworking of the Greataxe of the Ebon Blade, lacking the runework...crafted in titanium instead of saronite. There was nothing subtle in their handling of this task and he was well pleased with their work. That was a paladin...of the Ebon Blade. 

“I have rooms here.” Guarded and kept private by geists, comfortable for the living, safe for the dead. “We'll talk there.” He was certain that they could not be overheard here if they kept their voices down, but he needed to bring Brigitte up to speed. And if she had intelligence, he needed it as soon as possible. That was something they shouldn't do in the open. 

“Right.” That voice was going to take some getting used to, but it fit with everyone else around him. It hid Bridge's clear, commanding nordkommon accented alto completely, making her sound exactly like every Lordaeron born and raised death knight in existence. And there were a lot of those, Thassarian was a fine example. He was a fine example. We hide her in our midst... Not exactly, because she drew attention simply because of what she was and what she wasn't, but few people would be able to realize this was Brigitte Abbendis. And that was hidden enough for him. 

They followed him into the rooms he'd secured, Brigitte pushing back her cowl the moment the door shut behind her. The moment she did, much of the obfuscation of her identity fell away as well. She suddenly looked, felt, seemed to be Brigitte again and when she spoke, her voice was her own. “Good morning, Darion. Thassarian has the maps we have been working on. The Onslaught positions that I know of are on them.” There was the hint of something under her voice, she found this distasteful but all too necessary. And even fainter than that, anger...and it wasn't directed at him. Or even his people. It was directed at those who had, up until recently, been her people. Those who had been caught up in the madness with her and were still there in it. He understood what it was like to be snapped away from and forced to turn on those he had once stood beside and his only response was to offer her a glass of dark wine. He had no words of comfort that would make this sit easier, all he could be was a friend who understood what she was going through. She took the goblet from him and took a seat close to the window, staring out over the harbor. 

“How bad is it?” He asked Thassarian the question he didn't want to ask her. If she'd given the man the information, he was the best to put it all together in a coherent package.

“They have about twice the force under arms in Northrend than what we thought. She estimates eight to ten thousand, all told.” 

Not what Darion was hoping to be told but he was not surprised by the number. It was a paltry number compared to the combined might of the Ebon Blade, the Argent Crusade and the gathering champions of the Horde and Alliance, but it enough to need keeping an eye on. The Onslaught was a loose cannon willing to go up against anyone and anything, maddened and fanatical, driven by their demonic master. He was saddened that they must become a target as well, but the truth was obvious. He'd gotten what he wanted out of them, they had nothing else to hold destruction at bay...or so he hoped. 

“Bridge...a question. And please, know that I mean only the best.” 

She gave him a wary glance over her shoulder but waved him on. He took a deep breath, “Is there anyone with the Onslaught you don't want dead and gone?” He jumped into it and she bowed her head for a long moment. 

“There is no one with the Onslaught in Northrend that I don't want dead, Darion.” She finally answered. “Those here mean nothing...less than nothing...to me. You have everything that I know about Onslaught operations in Northrend.”

He nodded. There was more there, but it wasn't anything he was going to get in front of Thassarian. Maybe later, maybe in private, he could convince her to confide in him. To open up and let him carry part of the burden...and that was just it. Now that she was away from Acherus, she felt burdened. She'd had more time to reflect and it had darkened her from the last time he'd seen her. “Thank you, Thassarian. Make certain that Tirion has a copy of what she's given us.” 

Thassarian paused for a split moment, almost opened his mouth before he caught the gently firm dismissal in that statement. He bowed slightly to Darion and strode to the door, shutting it securely behind him as he departed.

“Bridge.” She had to understand that he was there for her. He hadn't yanked her out of the Onslaught just to set her adrift in the Ebon Blade. “Bridge. We're just as good as family...you said it best.” 

She slammed her goblet down on the table and Darion was not surprised that the stem gave way and it shattered in her grip. “I trusted them.” Her voice was heavy with pain and rage. “They were supposed to keep her safe, Darion! Whatever it took! And they failed! They failed me! She...she...” She dissolved into shattered sobs and he manhandled her out of the chair and held her to his chest, rocking her against him while he tried to soothe her. This was what he had felt lurking just under her overly placid, overly controlled surface, the tempest under oiled waters. “They let my baby die, Darion! My baby...” 

“Just let it out, Bridge.” She had to let it go, and here was better than out there in the open. Here he could hold her. Here she could break down in peace. “It's better this way.” 

She cried until she ran out of tears, her sobs tapered off and she was still in his arms. She wasn't asleep but she'd run out of immediate anguish, a feeling that Darion knew all too well. He silently helped her out of her harness, struggling against the stiff new straps and shining buckles and stood by while she slid under the blankets in the bed he pointed her to. “What?” She finally asked when the silence began to hang heavy. 

Did he dare ask it? Her secrets should be her own, but. “Baby?” He finally made the leap, said the words he could not bring back. 

“My daughter. I know she wasn't a baby, but she'll always be my baby. The letter said that the undead had made inroads into Tyr's Hand and that she was there...while I was here. I wasn't there, Darion. I wasn't there when Taelan was killed and I wasn't there when Lynnia was. It did this to me. I know it. I was always in the wrong place at the wrong damned time! Being whittled away...losing everything, bit by bit. Everyone I loved. Everything I had. Myself. My sanity. The very reason I was born...”

“The Light still loves you, Brigitte. I still love you. Stand up again. I stand beside you. Suffer well, my sister.”


	11. Chapter 11

Suffer well. It wasn't a sentiment that Brigitte had spent much thought on...the Ebon Blade used it as a greeting, a phrase of solidarity and belonging. It had been offered up to her often since Thassarian had come for her, and it had seemed empty. But now, it seemed more than that. It accepted that she did suffer. It gave it weight and validity. It did not brush that part of her away, it accepted it and expected it. No empty platitudes, just understanding and support. She was going to suffer, she was suffering, so she ought to do it well. They were all suffering here. 

But I don't want to suffer anymore. I've done it for too long. I want to live. 

It felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, a light dawning in her soul. She might be surrounded by those who did not live anymore, but Darion had saved her life so that she could live. And she had a lot of years left in her. Tirion was old enough to be her father...and he still fought, led, and carried the Light within him. 

Tirion. No. Not was not a place to go now, not a place to go yet. She would approach her father-in-law on her own terms, in her own time. Right now, she belonged with Darion.

Her charger shifted his weight beneath her and she opened her eyes. It was a beautiful day in Northrend, high scuttling clouds creating random beams of sunlight moving across the grass. She was free. Equipped. And ready to atone for her sins, ready to go make a difference in the world again, but this time, for all of the right reasons. 

 

9/10/16-3/14/16  
10400 words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (AN- No, I'm not done with Bridge and Darion, but I am done with this first installment. Your support has been amazing, especially for a story I wasn't sure was going to gain any traction... I knew that pairing (platonic or not) Brigitte Abbendis with Darion Mograine was going way outside of the box but I regret nothing. :) )  
> Semii


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